Provoked
by NordicMia
Summary: Set in and after 4.04 Harvest. A Joan/Endeavour ficlet. What is he really like, off-duty? If provoked?


**Just a bit of putting the pieces of the puzzle together from the brief last scenes of Endeavour 4.04. Please enjoy. /Mia**

When Joan turns to him and shakes her hair out of her face his fast heartbeat finds another gear. Rage floods his veins, and empties the world of colours, except for the purple bruising around her right eye. An almost tangible restlessness rises in his chest.

"Where is he? Where is he?"

"No, it wasn't his fault. It was me."

"Don't say that."

"Morse, please. It was me. I provoked him. He has given me a couple of weeks to get out of the flat."

"You should go home."

"I can't."

"Course you can."

"I can't. I've made such a mess. I don't know what to do."

"Marry me."

Stunned she watches him. He is afraid she is going to laugh.

"Morse, I… I don't want your pity. Never mind what Dad would say."

A shadow of a smile crosses his face when he turns around, facing the window rather than her. Of course she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't marry him. And whatever her dad and, moreover, his inspector would have to say about the mere idea isn't something he wants to hear. If only… If only he'd handed in that letter of resignation years ago, and still returned to Oxford. He might have met her in a club, at a concert, in a park. The chances of that are minimal, of course. He never goes to the clubs she favours, unless on duty; and her going to a concert at a collage chapel wouldn't happen in a… well, never, actually.

When the phone rings and she makes her intention of leaving clear, he can't think straight. His ears are on duty by Strange's voice, but his eyes are on her, burning. He can, of course, tell his colleague to hold even longer, or call back, and, for once in his life, make some kind of stand in relation to another human being. Part of him wants to disconnect the line, ask her to stay and make tea, but another part of him is reeling too much from the rage her bruised eye has awaken in him. And then there is the embarrassing "Marry me." He watches her go, still feeling her fingers against his lips.

His flat is almost empty, but it didn't seem so when she was there. When she leaves and he has finished the phone call the silence is ear-splitting. He's packed his records and his books, and can't think of anything to distract himself with. Fleetingly he thinks about going to the pub, but on a Saturday evening it will be crowded. He climbs the stairs to street-level to see if he catch a glimpse of her, but of the few people he sees no one fits her description. He trots down to his flat, pours a glass and thinks about how he's going to spend his last day in Oxford, before travelling to London first thing Monday morning. He falls asleep on the couch and wakes up with a bitter hangover. Some aspirin and coffee take the edge of the pain, but when the phone rings he can't get his head around why a doctor at the Radcliffe wants to speak with him about his girlfriend. When the circumstances become clear the rage from the evening before returns, his plan for his last day in Oxford becomes clear and he's more than willing to play along in the Radcliffe's honest mistake and take on the role of boyfriend, husband, or knight in an armour a bit worse for wear. He washes and shaves before rushing to the hospital, and is deeply thankful when she is asleep. He is afraid she might have read his intentions too easily, and would have tried to discourage him.

* * *

Strange just shrugs and hands him the keys when Morse asks if he can borrow the car.

"Not much, Sunday afternoon, matey. Make sure it's back before tomorrow morning. And fill her up."

"Sure. Ta."

He drives north, towards Leamington, more familiar with the route this time.

* * *

His impeccable memory soon figures out which windows used to hers, parks the car and waits. When dusk falls a small light is lit, and he leaves the black Jaguar with a frown and a clear destination. In the hallway to the block of flats, some forgotten first aid equipment tells him this is the site of the 'bad fall' her doctor described. He avoids the elevator and takes the stairs. He rings the door and waits, blood boiling. When the door opens Morse flashes his warrant card and takes a step forward to get the upper hand, inside the flat. The man looks surprised, and a little afraid. Morse briefly wonders why; they've never met before, even though Morse knows the other man by sight. Pocketing his wedding ring, rustling the flowers, unlocking the flat door with a smug smile under that ridiculous moustache.

Not having prepared any opening words, Morse punches the other man in the face. He aims for his right eye and hits as hard has he can. The other man stumbles back a few steps, the door slams shut and Morse waits while the other man groans in his doubled over position.

"Who the bloody hell are you? And why…?

"It's not my fault," Morse snarls. "You provoked me."

"What?"

Morse hits him again, aiming for the same eye.

"I told you, you provoked me."

With all of his fear gleaming from only one eye the man stands up with his left hand held up in surrender.

"Brother, then?"

"What?" Morse hasn't planned for any kind of conversation.

"Her dad was here the other day, told me to stay away from her."

"And did you?

"Well, I told her to get out, go home, or anywhere but here."

"Nicely? Offering to help her pack? Drive her back to Oxford?"

"Look, I just finished with her, like her dad told me to. Just…"

"Just what?"

"She came back late last night. We had this argument. She went all wild on me, crying, saying she had nowhere to go, and I…"

"You what?"

"I left."

"And was that before of after she fell down the stairs?"

It is clear that Joan's former lover finds the situation intimidating.

"Look, man, she just… em, fell."

"Show me," Morse growls and grabs the other man by his turtleneck collar, dragging him out of the flat and across the landing. At the brink of the stairs Morse stops and releases the other man.

"We were… arguing and she went for me and I… I was just trying to defend myself and I fended her off and… and she fell."

Morse pulls the other man close by the elastic material in his sweater, looks into his frightened eyes behind the glasses and stills for a second. Suddenly he can understand Inspector Thursday, thinking back on occasions when the inspector's vile temper has disgusted Morse. He is still disgusted, but not by the feeling of righteous fury.

"Like this, you mean?" Morse snarls and watches the other man fall backwards.

* * *

When Morse has retrieved what looks like Joan's things from the flat and carried them down to the car, the other man has left, leaving blood-prints in his wake. Morse wishes he'd hit even harder; it would have been satisfying to step over the body of the other man, on his way out.

Back in Oxford Morse returns the car to the station; he isn't on pick-up-the-inspector-duties tomorrow. He's made sure of that, having planned to be on the first train down to London, Tintagel House and a new unit at the Met. All that seems as far away as the moon the Americans have said to reach before the end of the century. He won't be on that London train, though. He walks the few blocks to the Radcliffe, finding his way to the ward he was called to the same morning. It is not visiting hours, of course, but flashing his warrant card opens doors. A nurse stops him just before he is about to push open the door to Joan's room.

"Would you like me to take a look at that, officer?"

"What?"

"Your hand."

Looking down on his bruised hand he suddenly realises where all the pain comes from. Not so much blood, but swollen knuckles, particularly on his index finger. He hesitates, feeling torn.

"She is asleep. You can go in in a little while."

"Right," he agrees, holding out his hand for inspection, wincing at the nurse's soft touch.

Joan is awake, albeit somewhat sleepy when he closes the door behind him and gives her a quick smile.

"You're here," she says and he nods.

"You're awake. You weren't before."

"Before?"

"This morning. Your doctor called me."

"Sorry about that. I didn't ask him to. But I had your number in my purse, and I guess…"

"It's all right. I'm glad you did."

"Such a mess, right?" she whispers, tears streaming.

"Hush… Don't… It's not… not the end of the world. Have you been in contact with…"

"No! She looks appalled. "Please, Morse, please don't tell them!"

"Not unless you ask me."

Slowly he reaches out and wipes the tears from her temples, grateful for not having to maintain eye-contact. She captures his hand with hers and pulls it to her lips.

"Thank you."

He smiles lopsidedly.

"For what?"

"For coming. For not telling… Morse, what is this? Your hand is all… What have you done?"

He shrugs.

"It wasn't my fault. It was him. He provoked me. Hush, lay down."

She does and regards him with a look he can't read.

"You went to Leamington?"

He nods.

"But why?"

He shrugs again, lacking answers. Tentatively he follows the bruised contour of her cheekbone, feeling his eyes grow hot. Joan closes her eyes when he touches her and makes it impossible to read her response.

"I told you," Morse says. "He provoked me."

She sobs softly, but doesn't open her eyes. He says 'sorry' even though he doesn't really know if he is or, for that matter, what for.

"You were always another kind of copper, Morse. Not the kind Dad is, or have become. All other constables who've been coming to pick him up over the years have had this self-righteousness about them. That being a police officer somehow makes it OK to use more violence that is called for. You're different. You're clever, not violent. That's what makes you interesting. Please, don't loose that."

She turns her head slightly and rests her lips against his fingers. None of them move, and Morse begins to think she's falling asleep. Just as well, he thinks.

"You are right," he whispers, only half hoping she hears him. "I'm not a violent police officer, I'm more of a brainy detective. And I've never beaten up a suspect when on duty, not even the ones who might have deserved it. Even if I would have gotten away with it. I've seen others do it. Sometimes I've tried to stop them. But I wasn't on duty in Leamington earlier. I didn't follow any protocol of how to act as an officer of the law. I was provoked by your bruised face yesterday, realising he'd abused you, and even more so this morning when your doctor called me, thinking I was your husband or boyfriend, telling me about you having fallen down the stairs out in Leamington. And I was angry with myself for letting you leave me yesterday. I should have insisted you'd stay, however awkward, or inappropriate, because then you wouldn't have gone back to him. And he wouldn't have… And you wouldn't…"

His throat aches and he knows he will have to stop talking before his voice breaks. He feels a stream of warm air against his fingers.

"I never went back to him. I just needed somewhere to sleep. I couldn't get a hotel-room in the state I was in. One night porter suggested I could take 'myself and my game' elsewhere. I was planning to come back to Oxford today, with my things. But not in an ambulance."

She winces.

"Are you in pain? Do you want…?"

"No. Not really. It's nothing."

"Don't say that. It's not nothing. It's…"

"Morse." She silences him with her fingers against his lips. "It's what I wanted. Not the bruising, not the concussion, but the miscarriage was. I didn't want a child, neither to raise as a single mother being an embarrassment to my parents, nor with that man. I never really wanted to be with him, but I needed to get away from Mum and Dad."

"Joan, I'm so sorry. I wish you… no, I wish I could be the man you wanted to be with, and not your dad's bagman."

"Morse, don't. Don't presume to know what I want. Just don't."

She sighs deeply and closes her eyes. He takes her hand in his.

"I won't. It's late now. I should go. I brought your things from Leamington. They're in my flat now. I leave the key here, by your bed. Come by when you feel better, when you are discharged."

She looks up, dazzling him with her brilliant blue eyes.

"But you are going away. Tomorrow. To London."

He gives a wry smile.

"Maybe. But the rent is paid for the rest of the month. And London seems far away. Would be a long drive to pick up your dad every morning."

"It would indeed."

 **I would love to know what you thought, if you have the time to drop a review. /Mia**


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